


These Nights Are Endless

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cruise Ship, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6801076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re coming back?” His voice is steady, but his jaw ticks and gives him away.</p><p>“Well, you did say you have two weeks off,” Clarke grins. “What else were you planning to do?”</p><p>Bellamy grins back, finding her hand again, to give it a squeeze. “Thanks, Raven,” he calls, without looking, as he leads the way back towards the door. “Bye, Raven.”</p><p>“Practice safe sex, kids!” she calls back, and he flips her off over his shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Nights Are Endless

**Author's Note:**

> BFF prompt fill for: Bellamy and Clarke meet on a cruise, Clarke is there with her mom who she doesn't get along with and Bellamy is there with his friends.

 Clarke is exhausted, which is sort of the opposite purpose of an all-inclusive cruise.

To be fair, it’s hardly the cruise’s fault that Clarke is stuck with her mom for two weeks. On a giant boat. In the middle of the ocean, where there’s no real escape.

She supposes she could fake her death or something, but that might come across as a little over dramatic.

And it isn’t her mom’s fault either, Clarke knows, which just makes her even more aggravated, because it means she has no one to blame. Her mom is just  _ always on _ , she had been even when Jake was still alive, but he’d been able to temper her a bit, relaxing the situation. But once he was gone, there was no one to balance Abby’s constant stream of itineraries and to-do lists.

Honestly, Clarke might just hate that she has a day planner at home that looked scarily similar to her mother’s. But that was the point of the cruise, wasn’t it? To relax, and forget about her responsibilities? Wells has explicitly given her the time off, so that she won’t be bothered with issues at the gallery, and she doesn’t have another showing until next month. She should be laying out on a lawn chair with some shitty young adult para-romance novel, pretending that she might get a tan.

But instead, here she is, hiding at the tiki bar, while her mom’s in the gift shop looking at the throw pillows with cross-stitched dolphins saying ridiculous things, like  _ you’re fin-tastic! _

She’s staring at the menu, thinking about ordering one of those drinks that come in a hollowed-out pineapple, with the crazy plastic straw. She’s wondering if she gets to keep the straw—when someone slides onto the stool beside her.

“You don’t look like you’re having much fun,” the man says, and Clarke whirls around, startled.

He’s grinning at her, and even though they’re both sitting down she can tell he’s taller than her. His shirt is unbuttoned, with a garish Hawaiian print, and his swim trunks are the color  _ salmon _ , like Clarke’s least favorite aunt’s bedroom walls. He looks like he was pulled straight from some travel brochure, complete with the sun-browned skin and charming smile. Clarke glares.

“I’m fun,” she says, maybe a little bit fiercer than necessary, but only because she’s been having a bad day—and anyway, who does this guy think he is, saying she doesn’t look like she’s having fun? For all he knows, she’s having the  _ most _ fun.

The man  _ smirks _ , which just makes her glare harder. “I’m sure you are, princess,” he says, and Clarke huffs, spinning away to order from the bartender, who’s watching them, amused.

“One of those pineapple drinks,” she says hotly, because she’s forgotten the name. The bartender—his nametag says MILLER—blinked at her.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Get her a Spongebob,” the man says, and Clarke frowned at him as Miller left to make her drink.

“A  _ what _ ?”

The man shrugs. “It’s a family cruise ship,” he says, and tips his head in thanks when Miller sets a cold Yeungling bottle down for him. He takes a sip, still eyeing her. “I’m Bellamy, by the way.”

Clarke worries her lip a little—it is  _ possible _ that she was a little harsh on him, before. “Clarke Griffin,” she tells him, and then immediately winces. She’s gotten used to introducing herself to sponsors and potential clients.

But Bellamy just grins. “First cruise?”

Miller places a hollowed-out pineapple in front of Clarke, complete with  _ two _ crazy straws, for emphasis. She beams, and takes a sip, promptly choking on it. That is a  _ lot _ of rum.

“What gave it away?” she coughs, and Bellamy’s grin widens. He leans over to pound her firmly on the back.

“Lucky guess.”

Clarke just makes a face at him and sips at her drink a little more carefully. She didn’t have that much for breakfast, because her mom made them rush through the buffet so they could take a turn at the whirlpool, and she doesn’t want to let it go straight to her head.

“So are you some kind of cruise veteran, then?” she asks, and Bellamy shrugs a little. He looks decidedly at home at the tiki bar, obnoxious clothing choices aside. She can easily picture him spending his summer on the ocean.

“You could say that,” he takes another pull from his beer. “I technically work on this ship, but there was a lottery for the crew, and I won. So I get two weeks off, and all my friends have to do whatever I say,” he flashes a grin at the bartender, who just shakes his head where he’s wiping martini glasses dry.

“You wish, Blake.”

Clarke finds herself biting back a grin at their easy banter, the kind of friendship that’s built on mutual vitriolic fondness. She has her own friendships, of course, and Wells has always been like a brother to her, but—a nice brother, who manages to be sarcastic without being mean. She always feels bad, mocking him, like maybe she’ll take it too far.

“So where are you from, Clarke Griffin?” Bellamy turns back to her, and Clarke has to take a moment to collect her thoughts because—his shirt is still hanging open, and there is a  _ lot _ of skin on display, and freckles, and muscles, and she’s only human, after all.

“Wilmington,” she manages, finally. “North Carolina. It’s on the east coast?”

Bellamy grins, bright and not charming at all, just happily surprised. “No shit? Me too. That’s where we dock during off-season.”

“Cool,” Clarke says, nodding into her drink, unsure how to react. It isn’t like she actually  _ knows _ him, or has any reason for excitement to be bubbling up in her stomach, but she can’t really help it. They’re in the middle of the Mediterranean; what are the odds?

“So listen,” Bellamy starts, but at that moment, Clarke catches sight of her mother’s head twisting around, clearly searching her out. Clarke ducks down immediately, crouching between the stools. Bellamy looks down at her with wide eyes.

“Did you drop something?”

Clarke glances back towards the entrance, and ducked down again with a groan. “You’re going to think I’m ridiculous,” she says, and Bellamy scoffs.

“You say that like I don’t think you’re ridiculous, already.”

Clarke huffs a little, and bites back a smile. He’s just—very funny. “I’m hiding from my mom,” she admits, and watches Bellamy turn to study the crowd, like he’s searching Abby out. She pokes him in the leg. “Don’t  _ look  _ for her!” she hisses.

“Don’t worry, I can’t see any ridiculous, gorgeous blondes over the age of forty.”

“She’s a brunette,” Clarke says, pointedly ignoring the  _ gorgeous _ part of his statement. Bellamy shrugs a shoulder.

“I can sneak you out through the back door,” he offers. “Maybe give you a whole servant’s tour of the ship?”

Clarke looks up to find him staring into his cup, like he’s afraid to glance at her. She nods. “Yeah, please. Do that.”

Bellamy downs his drink in one gulp, tosses a wave back at Miller, and slides easily from his stool, catching Clarke’s hand to lead her around the bar and through the swing door in the back of the room.

He keeps hold of Clarke’s hand the whole way through the storage rooms and the spidery-thin hallways meant for the ship’s employees to go from room-to-room. He leads her through different kitchens and stock rooms and giant pantries, where he steals a handful of shelled peanuts from a bag. He seems to know everyone they pass, offering a quick nod if they’re in a hurry, or a handshake and some small talk if they’re not. He always introduces Clarke, and she always flushes when each worker studies her, clearly assuming they’re on some sort of date.

They might be, if she wanted to call it that. If she wanted, she’s sure Bellamy would get dinner with her. Giving an impromptu tour while holding hands is a little above and beyond the typical  _ just friends _ paygrade.

Bellamy and Clarke sneak through one of the  _ two _ enclosed swimming pools, and he leads her up to one of the lifeguard stands, where a pretty brunette girl in a red swimsuit is scowling out at the pool, waiting for someone to drown, or something.

Bellamy creeps up behind the stand, so his head comes up to the girl’s armrest, and says “Boo!”

“What the fuck!” the girl yells, whirling around to glare at him, and then at Clarke by proxy. Bellamy just steps back out of her reach, laughing.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings, O,” he teases.

“Bite me, jackass.” O turns to eye Clarke up and down. “Who’s the princess?”

“Her name’s Clarke,” Bellamy slings a heavy arm around her shoulders, easy. Like it’s a habit. Clarke absolutely does  _ not _ snuggle into him, but it’s hard. “Clarke, this is my baby sister Octavia.”

“You could just call me your sister, you know,” Octavia grumbles, slouching low in her seat, and Clarke has to bite back a smile because—it’s such a  _ sibling _ thing to do, honestly. It’s like the moment her brother showed up, a switch was flipped, and Octavia devolved from the stoic, aggressive-looking lifeguard, to an annoyed little sister.

“I know,” Bellamy chirps. “Have you eaten lunch yet?”

Octavia rolls her eyes, which means this is probably a common question. “ _ No _ ,  _ mom _ , but I’m going to grab some fruit squares from the—” she sighs as Bellamy pulls the peanuts from his pocket, setting them in the little cup holder on her stand. He pulls out an apple from the other pocket, and sets that down too.

“She always forgets to eat,” he tells Clarke, and Octavia leans down to swat at his head.

“I do  _ not _ forget,” she says, exasperated. “How’d you even end up with this a-hole, anyway?” she asks Clarke, but Bellamy jumps in before she can answer.

“I’m giving her a tour of the ship. The scenic route.”

“You’re giving her a  _ tour _ ? Jesus, your game must suck more than I thought.”

Bellamy flicks her on the leg. “Don’t be a brat. Eat your lunch. Save lives.” He starts tugging Clarke away, towards the exit, as Octavia calls out after her that  _ you can do much better, princess! _

“Sorry about that,” Bellamy starts, leading Clarke down another particularly narrow hallway. There’s barely enough room for both of them side-by-side, so they’re pressed together from shoulder to hip, and Clarke’s trying not to think about how warm he is.

“Don’t be. You guys are cute.” She sees him look at her, sudden, and then clear his throat and look away. His cheeks are going pink, under all those freckles. “I like meeting your friends.”

Bellamy laughs, dry. “You shouldn’t, my friends are jerks. But I guess you’ll love our next stop, then. You ever seen an engine room?”

“Once, when I was little. My dad was an engineer.” Clarke can barely even remember it—nothing but steam and metal giants that were so big they made her cry.

“Cool,” Bellamy says, stopping in front of another door, this one with a round glass window set in the center, so Clarke can see inside. Steam and metal. He shoulders it open, and she follows him in.

It’s warm,  _ very _ warm, and within seconds Clarke can feel the hair on the back of her neck sticking to her skin with sweat. Her palm’s growing slick under Bellamy’s, but neither of them let go, and he tugs her farther into the maze of pipes and giant metal pillars.

“Reyes!” he calls, straining to be heard over the gasps of steam and the low whistling of the pipes. “Where the hell are you?”

“What do you want?” A pretty Latina girl ducks her head out over the scaffolding above them. She frowns down at first Bellamy, and then Clarke. “This isn’t a zoo exhibit, Blake,” she huffs, waggling a pipe wrench at them, for emphasis.

“And here I thought you might appreciate some company,” Bellamy teases, and Reyes huffs. “Come on, Raven. Show us what weird robot you’ve invented this week.”

Raven eyes them both for a moment before heaving a sigh, and working her way down the scaffold’s ladder. Once she’s near enough, Clarke can see she’s wearing a leg brace, which she has to carefully maneuver on her way down. They follow her around and in between the pipes and water heaters, to a spindly metal picnic table set up in the back, covered in blueprints and the plastic kind of toolboxes sold for cheap at Lowe’s.

Raven bends down to retrieve something from under the table, and sets a chunk of half-melted metal on the top. It looks like she just took a blowtorch to one side.

“I did,” Raven agrees, and Clarke realizes she must have said that out loud. “Anya let me use the one she keeps for the Baked Alaska.”

“Anya’s the pastry chef,” Bellamy tells Clarke.

“Part-time pastry chef,” Raven corrects. “Full-time badass.” Bellamy rolls his eyes.

“So what does this do?” Clarke wonders, studying the bit of metal. Honestly, it looks more like a piece of abstract art, than artificial intelligence.

Raven shrugs, noncommittal. “I haven’t decided yet. Come back in three days.”

Bellamy looks ready to say something, but Clarke cuts him off. “Okay. But next time, I’m bringing a fan.”

Raven grins and moves to put the robot back, while Bellamy studies Clarke, looking at her through his eyelashes. The sweat on his forehead have clumped his curls together, and Clarke reaches up without really thinking, to brush them out of his eyes.

“You’re coming back?” His voice is steady, but his jaw ticks and gives him away.

“Well, you did say you have two weeks off,” Clarke grins. “What else were you planning to do?”

Bellamy grins back, finding her hand again, to give it a squeeze. “Thanks, Raven,” he calls, without looking, as he leads the way back towards the door. “Bye, Raven.”

“Practice safe sex, kids!” she calls back, and he flips her off over his shoulder.

“Seafood, or pasta?” he asks her in the hallway, and Clarke can’t decide, so they flip a quarter, and seafood it is. “Monroe’s from Maine,” he tells her on the way. “She can cook a mean lobster.”

They eat dinner in the kitchen, at a fold-out card table, on paper plates. But Bellamy was right—the lobster is to die for, and Clarke slurps up every inch, before licking the oils from her fingers after.

“This is all very  _ Lady and the Tramp _ ,” she teases, and Bellamy chokes on his own bite. The table’s small, so their legs are all tangled up underneath it, and she’s feeling warm and happy from the hot meal and the fancy wine that Monroe forced upon them, because she’s apparently a romantic.

“I know how to woo a girl,” Bellamy agrees, but he’s going all red and blotchy, and Clarke has to hide her grin in her glass.

They finish their meal, and then the crème brule that Monroe made in little ceramic bowls, just for them, and Clarke finds herself in the little alleyway between the pool room and the tiki bar, another employees-only space that’s empty, save for them.

“So, what would you like to see next?” Bellamy asks, and it’s nice to know that he doesn’t want their time to be over, either. “There’s a cool star-gazing deck up-top. It’s not workers-only, but—” he freezes when Clarke winds her arms around his neck, folding her fingers through his hair, just a little. His hands settle on her hips, once he figures out what to do with them, and she watches his throat work as he swallows.

“How about your room?” she grins. “Show me how the other half sleeps.”

“I told you, I won a two-week cruise,” he says, dipping down to nose at her cheek. “I have a guest room and everything.”

When he kisses her, it’s not insistent at all. It’s soft, and wet, and before she registers it, Clarke’s pressed back against the wall with Bellamy’s knee between her legs, so she can grind up against it as he groans.

“Can we,” she pants, and has to pause to  _ think _ for a minute, as Bellamy pulls back to let her speak. “Can we do that star-gazing thing first? It sounds kind of neat.” At his blank look, she adds, “I definitely want to have sex with you after, though,” and he laughs.

“No, yeah, we can do that,” he grins winding an arm around her shoulders as he steers her towards the stairs. “Whatever the hell you want. You’re the guest, technically.”

“We’re both guests,” she says, and he grins into her hair.

Clarke wakes up in a sea of plush sheets and brown skin, and she watches Bellamy sleep for a minute, before leaning over to press her mouth over a patch of freckles on his shoulder. He snorts a little, and then curls a hand over her hip, tugging her in.

“You’re a light sleeper,” she observes, and he huffs a laugh of stale breath against her neck.

“Only when I’ve got a pretty girl in bed with me,” he grins, and she kisses him.

“I should go find my mom, and make sure she hasn’t reported me as missing, or something.” He hums against her mouth, and she only feels a little bad for wanting to stay longer. “I’ll see you later?”

“I’m planning to lay out on a lawn chair and do nothing all day,” Bellamy sighs, sounding pleased with himself. “And bug my coworkers, of course.”

“Of course,” Clarke stops getting dressed mid-way, to lean over and peck the corner of his mouth, just because. He’s lying naked and wrapped up in a white sheet, looking like a Renaissance painting. Honestly, it’s impossible  _ not _ to kiss him. “I’ll find you.”

Bellamy curls a hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head and stretching the kiss out, making it long and wet. “Awesome. Have fun with your mom.”

Clarke makes a face at him, and his laugh chases her out of the room.

She finds her mom at the breakfast bar, sitting down for once and eating what looks like a blueberry parfait. Clarke loads her plate up with waffles and bacon, before joining her. Abby gives her two raised brows, and Clarke does her best to not feel like a teenager who’s just been caught sneaking in after a late night out.

“You disappeared yesterday,” her mom remarks, but she doesn’t sound too upset about it. More amused than anything else.

“Yeah.” Clarke fidgets a little. “I met—a friend. Bellamy. He showed me around.”

“A  _ friend _ , hmm?” Abby hums around her spoon. “Is that what we’re calling it, these days?”

Clarke stuffs her mouth with a wad of syrupy waffle, so she won’t have to respond, and Abby laughs.

“You don’t have to feel embarrassed, honey, I’m glad you’re having fun.”

“Easy for you to say I don’t have to feel embarrassed,” Clarke grumbles with her mouth full, so Abby frowns.

“I know I’ve been—not the  _ best _ vacation partner,” she admits, and Clarke reaches for her hand automatically. She might annoy her sometimes, but she’s still her  _ mom _ , and Clarke still wants to make her feel better.

“You’ve been great,” Clarke argues. “ _ I’ve _ been a brat, lately.” Abby squeezes her fingers, before letting go.

“We’ve both been a little.” She wiggles a hand in a so-so gesture, and Clarke nods. “So, tell me about this friend of yours?”

Clarke immediately cuts out a huge bite of waffle and makes a show of stuffing it in her mouth. Abby does not look amused.

“Cute,” she says, dry. “You know we have a massage appointment at four. I’ll have plenty of time to get it out of you, then.” She waggles her eyebrows until Clarke chokes on her food, and Abby finishes her parfait up, smugly. “I’m going to go read by the tidal pool until the appointment. I’m sure you probably have—plans.”

Clarke gulps down some orange juice to smooth the wad of breakfast down her throat, and nods. “I can probably find something to occupy my time with, yeah. Meet you there.”

She finds Bellamy lounging on an upper deck lawn chair, the kind with teal see-through plastic strips that stick to your skin in the heat. He’s got dark sunglasses on and no shirt, just swim trunks and cheap-looking flip flops dangling half-off his feet. He’s reading a heavy-looking book with a faded cover, and he doesn’t even notice when Clarke perches on the hot pink lawn chair beside him.

“Is it any good?” Clarke asks, pointing at the book, and Bellamy jumps a little, startled. Clarke doesn’t bother hiding her grin, smug that she managed to spook him.

But Bellamy just grins back, shutting the book in question and resting it on his knee. “Oh yeah,” he says, running a hand through his curls, only a little damp from the sea breeze and salty sweat. “It’s about the Trojan War. I’m dying to find out how it ends.”

Clarke laughs, swinging her legs around to sprawl out on her own chair, tipping her head back to soak in the sun. She isn’t wearing any sunscreen, which means she should probably duck back into the safety of shade within the next ten minutes, if she doesn’t want to spend the next week and a half bathing in aloe vera and trying not to move.

“Tell me how it starts?” she asks, breaking the silence, and reaches over to trace the veins of his arm. Their chairs are nearly touching, so he’s easy to reach, and he catches her fingers with his, opening the book up one-handed. When he speaks, it’s clear and rough, and Clarke thinks he has the voice for it.

“Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus, and its devastation, which put pains thousandfold upon the Achaians, hurled in their multitudes to the house of Hades strong souls of heroes, but gave their bodies to be the delicate feasting of dogs, of all birds, and the will of Zeus was accomplished since that time when first there stood in division of conflict Atreus’ son the lord of men and brilliant Achilleus.”

“ _ Jesus _ ,” Clarke interrupts, and Bellamy laughs. “Did nobody teach Homer about run-on sentences?”

“Do you want me to continue? Homer was sort of the master of run-on’s.”

“I think I read this for tenth grade,” Clarke muses. Bellamy’s begun to play with her fingers, against the warm skin of his stomach. She can feel the tiny hairs there, like peach fuzz, and runs her knuckles over it, making him flinch.

“You  _ think _ you did?” Bellamy asks, and even though his eyes are hiding behind his sunglasses, she just  _ knows _ he’s cocked one eyebrow.

“High school’s a bit of a blur,” she admits, and he laughs. “But you’re a lot more interesting than my English teacher, so I think I’ll remember it this time around.”

“Yeah?” His grin is crooked, and Clarke can’t really stop herself from leaning over, to press a kiss where his lips meet his cheek. He chases her mouth a little when she falls back.

“More distracting, too,” she hums, and he laughs, reaching over to tuck her hair behind her ear. She didn’t get a chance to blow dry it after her shower, so it’s a mess of wind-blown curls that she hasn’t bothered taming. “But I’ll do my best to focus. My mom and I are getting massages at four.”

“Oh, you’ll get to meet Lincoln then,” Bellamy says, voice light enough even as he makes a weird face around the name.

“Lincoln?”

“He’s my sister’s boyfriend,” he admits, saying  _ boyfriend _ like the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“Oh my god, you hate your sister’s boyfriend? Isn’t she like, my age?”

“I don’t  _ hate _ him,” Bellamy grumbles, slouching a little in his chair, skin making a skidding sound as it slides against the plastic. “Lincoln’s a great guy. It’s just—she’s my little  _ sister _ , you know?”

“Not really,” Clarke chirps, and he frowns at her. “But it’s sweet that you care so much. Wells, my best friend, we were raised together, so he’s basically like my brother. We’re business partners now, actually. We run a gallery together.”

“That’s awesome,” Bellamy says, impressed, and Clarke flushes. Or maybe it’s the heat.

“You’re all pink,” he muses, reaching over to thumb at the skin of her cheek. It doesn’t hurt yet, which means she’s probably not burned, just overheated. Clarke Griffin was not built for sunlight.

“Think you can read that book of yours, indoors?” she asks, surreptitiously fanning herself in the face.

“Yeah,” Bellamy stands, offering her a hand up. “But—it is a pretty long book. We probably won’t get through it by four. You might need to come back tomorrow. And, of course, you still have to visit Raven again.”

“Of course,” Clarke agrees. “So obviously, that’s two more days. Think you can find anything else, for the other twelve?”

Bellamy ducks to hide his grin, but it’s too late; she’s seen it already. He still has ahold of her hand, and starts over towards the stairwell leading back towards the rooms. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

\---

“Are you sure I shouldn’t come with you?” Wells asks, for the sixth time. Clarke does her best not to throttle him.

“I’m not sure what you’re so afraid of. We met in person, remember? We spent two weeks together. He’s not catfishing me on the internet, or anything. If he was going to murder me, why wouldn’t he have just done it on the cruise, where he could toss my body overboard and no one would be the wiser?”

“Maybe he has a giant chest freezer he where he wants to store your corpse,” Wells muses, and Clarke gives him her most unimpressed look.

“What would he do that for?”

“To eat you, obviously,” Wells says, and she rolls her eyes, rinsing the last of the paint off her arms under the tap. They’re in what used to be an office bathroom, before they converted the floor into a studio, so now there aren’t any diving walls; just a sink sticking out of the wall, and a cookie sheet nailed over the hole where the toilet used to sit.

“I promise to text you if I get even the slightest cannibalistic vibe from him, okay?” She dries her arms in a rush, with a paint-stained towel. She has a backlist of commissions to complete, from while she was on vacation, and lost track of time that afternoon. Now the sun is already setting and Clarke knows she probably has a rainbow of paint splotches across her shoulders and collar bones, but she doesn’t have time to shower so she’ll just have to cover them up with a button-down and hope for the best.

“Send me a picture of his license plate,” Wells orders, stern, and Clarke smacks a kiss to his cheek before running out the door.

It’s been nearly another two weeks since Clarke has seen Bellamy Blake; they docked in Wilmington, but apparently the crew stay on the ship for an extra two weeks after the cruise ends, to clean up after all the guests and set everything up for the next round. The crew isn’t even allowed to step foot on the dock, until those last two weeks are up, but the ship still gets cell reception, and they’ve been texting back and forth the whole time.

She’s learned that Bellamy Blake is the worst texter of all time, a fan of ironic spelling, and a little over enthusiastic about emoji’s. It’s cute, though. Clarke likes it.

Clarke likes  _ him _ , and she’s feeling giddy the whole walk down to the local twenty-four hour coffee shop, where they agreed to meet.

He’s there when she arrives, looking nervous and well-dressed in a corner booth by the old juke box that doesn’t work, but acts as decoration. The electric lights cast everything in a pallid yellow color, but even that does little to alter his appearance. Bellamy’s as beautiful in a Henley and jeans, as he is in neon swim trunks and a garish Hawaiian shirt. Possibly more so, but really it’s hard to tell, since his abs are no longer on display.

He doesn’t notice her until she’s sliding into the booth right across from him, and a bright smile breaks out on his face, making Clarke’s stomach flutter.

She’d been sort of worried, that the buzz, the spark, the  _ whatever _ between them had been just the sort of buzz that comes with a summer fling. Nothing but a quick adventure on the ocean, on vacation, with no responsibilities or early morning wake up calls or reality to bring them down.

But now she’s looking at him with solid ground beneath her feet, and Clarke still feels that swoop of excitement. She’s still grinning stupidly at the sight of him, at the feel of his bent knees pressed to hers, the soft scratch of his denim on her skin.

“Did you already order?” she asks, and he shakes his head, glancing back at the menu. The corner of the laminated page is curled, like he’s been playing with it, rolling it up in his fingers. “The cherry cobbler’s pretty good,” she tells him, pointing it out on the list, and Bellamy strokes two fingers between the divots of Clarke’s knuckles, until she shivers. It’s the sort of thing he used to do on the ship, whenever he played with her hand, and she’s glad it seems to be a habit.

“Sounds good.” Bellamy flags down a waitress and they order, handing their sticky menus off before sitting back in their seats.

“Lincoln’s throwing a party tomorrow,” he says, and then rolls his eyes. “Actually, my sister’s throwing a party, and she’s forcing Lincoln to let her have it at his place. You’re invited, if you want to come.”

Clarke grins. “Sure. I did miss them more than you, after all.”

“Right,” he scoffs, but he looks pleased about it. “So how’s the painting going?”

It’s easy, after that. It’s not like they’ve never talked before—they’ve had two weeks of talking, about nearly everything, because there’s something about summer and the ocean and vacation and a combination of all three that makes their tongues come loose. Everything seems possible, because there aren’t really any rules, about what’s alright to admit after just hours of meeting. Clarke knows that Bellamy’s mom overdosed when he was sixteen, that he spent the next two years in foster care, terrified of losing his little sister, of being separated when she was just eleven, and too young to protect herself.

And Bellamy knows about her dad, about how her mom found him dangling from his office ceiling. About how everyone had thought he was the happiest man in the world, until it turned out that he wasn’t. Her dad was suicidal, and she never even noticed. She whispered  _ what if I could have saved him _ into Bellamy's skin, that last night, when they snuck up on the top deck to lay out under the stars. And Bellamy had pulled her in, pressing his mouth against her eyes, licking at the tears that leaked through her lashes.

_ You were just a kid _ , he’d said, kissing her, and then again.  _ It wasn’t your fault. You were just a kid. _ He kissed her and kissed her, and they fell asleep shivering in the breeze.

Bellamy does order the cherry cobbler, and he makes a show of grumbling each time Clarke steals a bite, but then he pushes the plate closer to her. He steals the whipped cream off her frozen coffee, and Clarke steals the cherry from his milkshake, and ties a knot in the stem to show off.

He slips it in his pocket. “For safe keeping,” he grins wickedly, and Clarke feels her cheeks start to burn.

She’s missed the feel of him—more than just his fingers between hers, or his feet knocking against her ankles under the table. She’s missed sleeping with her arm curled around him, missed playing with the hair of his stomach, trailing down. Missed the weight of him against her hips when they had time for lazy morning sex. Missed the feel of his tongue slipping against hers, fitting into her mouth like it belonged there.

Bellamy walks her home under the streetlamps, babbling on about how Sterling nearly fell overboard while waxing the upper deck that morning, and they pause at the front steps of her apartment.

“I have to get up early tomorrow to help set up for the party,” he says, a little regretful, but honestly Clarke’s relieved. They were rushed on the ship, pressed for time, with a two-week constraint—but that isn’t the case on land. Here, they can take their time, slow down, get to know all the parts that they didn’t have time for before. She tangles her fingers up in his hair, and leans in to kiss him, softer and more chaste than she’s used to.

Bellamy doesn’t taste like sunshine and ocean air and mini bar liquor, this time. He tastes like strawberry milk shake and stale coffee and the complimentary peppermint candy they got with the check. He pulls back, just a little, enough so that when Clarke opens her eyes, she sees his smile, slow and soft in the street light. He felt like an adventure on the ship, but now he’s a different kind of story in her arms. One that’ll last longer.

Clarke can’t wait to find out how it ends.


End file.
